I feel very much as if I had just awakened out of a long sleep. Iattribute it to the fact that I have slept the greater part of the timefor the last two days and nights. On Wednesday, I sat up all night, inVirginia, in order to be up early enough to take the five o'clock stageon Thursday morning. I was on time. It was a great success. I had acheerful trip down to Carson, in company with that incessant talker,Joseph T. Goodman. I never saw him flooded with such a flow of spiritsbefore. He restrained his conversation, though, until we had traveledthree or four miles, and were just crossing the divide between SilverCity and Spring Valley, when he thrust his head out of the dark stage,and allowed a pallid light from the coach lamps to illuminate hisfeatures for a moment, after which he returned to darkness again, andsighed and said, "Damn it!" with some asperity. I asked him who he meantit for, and he said, "The weather out there." As we approached Carson,at about half past seven o'clock, he thrust his head out again, andgazed earnestly in the direction of that city--after which he took it inagain, with his nose very much frosted. He propped the end of that organupon the end of his finger, and looked pensively upon it--which had theeffect of making him cross-eyed--and remarked, "O, damn it!" with greatbitterness. I asked him what was up this time, and he said, "The cold,damp fog--it is worse than the weather." This was his last. He neverspoke again in my hearing. He went on over the mountains with a ladyfellow passenger from here. That will stop his chatter, you know, for heseldom speaks in the presence of ladies.